


butter pecan

by ruruka



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: future foundation canon, nightclub fun.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 16:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13461750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruruka/pseuds/ruruka





	butter pecan

_the world's ending,_ she'd told him,  _live a little._

it'd been his sixth minute spent stuffing the stapler at every angle imaginable, his seven hundred fifty forth day as a god of public relations, and third cup of creamer on the present. and she'd taken that stapler in her perfectly prissy manicure and lined neat its artillery, pressed it back to his palm with the nicest row of sutures supporting her simper on a float past. he thinks on it now, now in the murk of dusk dragging shadows long from headlights, neck tucked tight to leather collar. dark. punk. when he spots her, she's dolled up in a mink and sweet sakura perfume, skirt smooth and skimpy and stilettos demanding to the pavement.

they wouldn't so exactly call each other friends. had he the prompt to address, she'd be andou from the office. the pretty girl in division eight, the one who brings those heart halting cupcakes to the breakroom on fridays. you know, her. the lux of the night, very likely, has turned her into  _her,_ from the way the lights of the train catch her eye in the tuck of a lock behind one ear, the clutch of purse in her lap and divinity on her china doll face.

though every doll's her lore and porcelain its shatter, and when from that purse draws a fine treasurer black he wishes he's the gall to deny.

"togami smokes this brand, too," she tints his ears with. the cigarette calls her voice into a histrionic muffle. "i saw them on his desk when i brought him papers once."

naegi takes it in two fingers once it's offered his way, and says nothing further than the dulled inhales.

the train clunks along age old metal. he hasn't taken the metro past dark since the midnight hi-standard show, and he'd been so weak at the knees and wet at the collar that he'd have found it a blessing to be shived in the gut and robbed of his last crumpled banknotes. he'd had a companion, then, one who burns his throat raw to think on too sharp, would have been a shield of fists tossed should peril flirt. now it's himself versus the world, since andou's a lady and that means he's the protector this round. andou's a lady even if she's an inch taller than him in those heels of hers, perhaps twice the width done up in layers of fur and plush and years of taste testing ganache. her skirt rides up the side of one thigh. she's a lady, though, so he stops staring and hands the smoke back to her.

they're drawn to standing when the lights flash thrice at the front, a dozen bacardi breathed prancers their escorts out the parted doors. it's a whispering summer night, wet in its smell, feel, pushes his sleeves to elbows in following her steps further into it.

the wait's not long, like he's seen in the movies, no thick bouncer arms crossed over a musket barrel chest to refuse them. he's there, sure, looks normal enough to invite for coffee (yet still expect the table tossed legs up in the wake of a glare thrown dirty) in their approach. they're inside too, not like the movies, not like the shows, and it's thumping already in the entryway with pulses to mars, and he likes the taste of not being the only one carded for a babyface.

even more so, he likes the taste of sex on the beach slid to his palm, timid not the slimmest in his tilt to swallow half the glass, because the world's ending, so he's living a little.

(of course he knows the world isn't ending, because he's worked two legion years to make sure of it, but he still likes to drink, anyway.)

strobes catch andou's focus over a shoulder. her drink sweats rivulets down the circle stamp on her knuckles.

"you're dancing with me," she tells him in a strut frontways. emptied glasses set back to the bar. he wonders if she knows he'd be too soft to refuse even if she had asked. he wonders if andou's a good dancer.

evident on the first swing of a hip, first jangle of bracelets raised high, she's got his eye in the positive. nothing to ever make it into a vocational for, but she's delightful in a way that'd be sexy if he knew she were single.

"come  _on,"_ smacks him after an airhead's seventy second stare. that smile- cajoling. and she needn't bother with a  _dance!_ because he's sure of it already, and some kind of hook's caught his belt loop to marionette him about so flagrant. this part's just like the movies. sticky. loud. thrilling.

his teeth skim along the lyrics behind the beat after another tall grey goose, rims clinked to a toast and free hands twinned to drag back amongst fever. he twirls her outward. she laughs aside the sloshing liquor.

"i knew you'd be fun once you loosened up." she's pressed to his chest, very nearly, from the stumble of bodies slick around them. honeyglow. hours cast each blink.

someone in his vision's sweet sweet line loses their tube top to a peel flung upwards. he watches through jostling limbs the press of a square to a woman's prodding tongue, the hooting cackles that chase its swallow. he dances faster.

sweat's thick to his tee once they pause for a break. the nightclub caters special to those bound by young adulthood, it seems, by way of couches lining a wall. a tall divider hides their lax. plant fronds nudge beneath his fingertips (because he'd been staring at them wondering if they were real or not, and the waxy coating gives his answer boldly). her drink's rim kisses her, and he switches his attention to her cherrywood cheeks and shoulders freed by coat to the elbow curves.

"...this is fake, you know," she says sudden, soft as soft can when riddled in pounding bass, piercings jangling to molly mouthed delight.

"the...coat?" he tries back. "oh, that's good...you don't seem like the type to like, uh, poaching."

her chest heaves into a waggling smirk, eyes in glamour to swivel. "that isn't what i meant."

fire calls his lungs. he could say something, could say anything, but knows it not the closest. rather he allows those same strings tugged to go his blown pupils to her lift of one hand. five nails glimmer in pay per view pink, the middlemost failing the length the others boast dear.

"i only saw them on his desk once, because they were only there once," she says to him, mouth stone to its smirk the same. "future foundation pays like shit."

"oh," he answers, because he  _knows,_ sees it every week's close in the five digit lackluster. it doesn't matter- they need all the resources they can salvage. it isn't about him, and he'd do it for free, he'd pay  _them_ to help. he makes rent. he can spoil himself on namebrand ice cream once a month. it isn't about him.

but andou lowers that hand to her lap, and she's saying so much in such vague little portions, and he thinks her destitute to dolor, though sees it nowhere etched in her. she's radiant. plush lips lean to her glass the cloned moment as he is to lean inwards and wish himself that vodkatini. over everything, over all, he does not hear her derisive scoff, spots only the ripples cast by a snort.

"don't you dare kiss me." still plays that simper. not cynical, not mocking. just there, just andou from work setting her drink to the table and laughing so light he'd think her a nun were it not for the sweat dripping slow down her cleavage. broken nail and all, the palm holds to his thousand degree face. "i'm a bitch, but not like that."

and he remembers why she isn't so perfect an alluring dancer, hasn't since age fifteen when she'd kissed him in the moonlight aside a skipping stone pond in hakone (not  _him_ but some other him, some other andou's arm candy from the office, from the story she's told in the break room fifty times after fifty settings of cupcake trays to countertop), and naegi makoto trickles his sight along her calm hush lashes and gloss in the babyface squish of forced pucker, and thinks himself a gold crown asshole. he draws back from her, demands himself a laugh off, since drunk is as drunk does and two and one half drinks work miracles through a hundred pound body.

her fingertips scrape his jaw fresh, light. "i'm telling you all the bad things about me, you're not supposed to want  _me."_ a tongue coasts her top lip. "you're the type of person people wanna root for. go out and  _be._ "

forever he could peer at her, the mounds of faux this and knock off that, thinks perhaps it's fitting of someone who speaks so ill as this. the bass sways his neck in inebriated breeze on cat o' nines.

"we'll...all go out and be," he promises her. "that's what we're here for."

natural, not  _here,_ the sticky loud thrilling sinkhole about them the current, but here, here, there and all the time. they're here. he's here.

long are her eyes to the thin glass tabletop before their seats. then she's a hurricane whipping to look to him again, and he very nearly gets a headrush from it himself, blames the neon, blames the booze.

"i only trust when i'm drunk," she says, and takes his hand to pull him toward the center of swinging swishing hollers gone to life.

she leans against his shoulder the whole train ride home. that's what he's here for.


End file.
